Of Light and Life
by CatalynMJ88
Summary: Rose is an aspiring artist, trapped in a loveless engagement by her mother's illness and her late father's debt. Amelia is the wise but subversive youngest child of Rose's soon-to-be in-laws, the Bowers. Aboard the RMS Titanic, the young women first must solve a murder- then fight for their own survival. Will their beautiful truth survive the flood?
1. Long Island, January 1912

**1. Long Island, January 1912**

The fishing villages still showed signs of life. Gas lamps held out against the heavy grip of damp, frigid nights. A trickle of travelers shuffled forth from the Montauk Line, huddled in wool and flannel. The lanes were shoveled of snow, and the backyards and beaches boasted footprints, sled tracks and snowmen.

But beyond the villages, the summer homes of the wealthy stood dark and stony like massive mausoleums. No one came or left; the owners were tucked safe in their Manhattan townhomes, and even the groundskeepers didn't venture up at this time of year. The winding private lanes, summer homes to Oldsmobiles and Renaults, now hosted only snow and ice. The expansive lawns were as smooth and white as marble.

Only the Bowers mansion had electric lights in its windows and cars in its cleared drive. A modest crowd of New York's elite had come and gone one day, quiet and dressed in black. Patriarch Robert Bowers and his grown sons had been spotted riding into the city for business, their valet scanning the passing countryside for desperate tabloid writers. Otherwise the Bowers estate was a world unto itself, growing tenser and smaller by the day.

Robert Bowers was approaching sixty and still a strapping man, tall and broad-shouldered. And yet he looked small, sitting slouched in one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the drawing room, staring out into the sleeting night.

His wife Sophie came and plucked a forgotten whiskey glass from his hand. Her straight blonde hair, just beginning to pale with age, was immaculately piled above a pearl-studded headdress. She wore a string of pearls, and a black velvet dress that strangely toed the line between mourning and seduction. One would think she had places to go tonight. She wished she did.

"Darling, what's wrong?" she cooed. Her voice was deep and silky, her accent over-refined.

"Nothing," he replied. "It's been decided. Julian's wedding is postponed."

"What?"

Sophie straightened, her ring-bedecked fingers tightening around the whiskey glass. Postponed? After all she had _done?_ She had stepped in on behalf of the bride's ailing mother, planning the wedding of a stepson she disliked and a girl she barely knew. She had to send misspelled invitations back to that incompetent printing shop _twice, _and now that they'd finally been sent out, it turns out they announced the _wrong date?_

"When?" she asked.

"This summer. June, perhaps."

They were supposed to be married next month! Sophie bit back her anger and took a swig of the whiskey. "For heaven's sake, Robert, I've already sent out the invitations, _and _the catering order. Hasn't she already disrupted our lives enough?"

"Rose is a sweet girl."

"You know that's not who I meant."

"Darling, please. It isn't just… Vivian's passing."

Sophie paused. She wasn't accustomed to Robert looking up at her. From this angle, his cunning brown eyes looked lost and exhausted. For eighteen years now the rumor mills had dubbed him a 'dirty old man.' She didn't let the 'dirty' bother her. But was he finally getting old?

"It's these awful lies the press is spreading," he said. "It may take some time before we can show our faces in town. Rose has agreed to it; in fact she likes the idea of a smaller affair, here on the grounds."

"Good," Sophie retorted. She knocked back her drink. "Then they can marry out on the lawn next month. How poignant, to have her promise 'for richer or poorer' while shivering.'"

"Sophie!"

"Life in our family requires sacrifice. The sooner this girl learns that, the better. Rayburn!" She called for Robert's valet. "Another whiskey!"

Robert rose from the windowsill, cast off his untied four-in-hand and stared Sophie down. Now _this_ was the Robert Bowers to whom she was accustomed. She shuddered and held up her chin. The valet appeared with a tray of drinks. Robert dismissed him with a wave before Sophie could take a new glass. All the while the couple never broke eye contact.

"Why are you so upset by a girl from tattered 'old money' marrying into this family?"

"And why are _you_ so eager to show kindness to another young woman?"

"Enough," he snapped. "It has been decided."

(scene)

There wasn't much for Rose to do in Long Island. Mother often needed to rest in her guest room with the curtains drawn, and the Bowers' staff insisted on tending to her in Rose's place. Julian went into the city for work in the mornings and came home late and drunk- if he came home at all. Julian's brother Edward had barely spoken to anyone since his wife and daughters left after Vivian's funeral. Sophie gave Rose a subtle yet distinct impression of unwelcome, and for Rose to socialize with Robert anywhere beyond the dining room table would be highly improper.

The default assumption seemed to be that Rose would socialize with Amelia Bowers, the only child of Robert's second and current marriage. The servants had placed Rose in the guest room nearest Amelia's suite. Sophie, in a rare moment of near warmth, invited Rose to browse "Amelia's library," a pair of built-in bookshelves surrounding a sunny window seat on the third floor. (It turned out to be an eclectic mix of political theory and pulp fiction.) When Rose's thin old sketchbook ran out, Amelia was quick to lend her a hardback book of high-end pastel paper, weighty as cardstock and smooth as silk.

"Don't mention it, Fiancée," she said.

Amelia had started off calling Rose "Julian's fiancée," then just "Fiancée" for short. She never called her Rose. The rest of the Bowers seemed to expect Rose's shock at their lifestyle excesses; Amelia was the only one to call her out for looking perturbed:

"Is there anything I can _help _you with, Fiancée?"

"Relax, Fiancée, the noise outside is just Edward shooting things."

"My maid and I were having an argument, Fiancée, is that _alright_ with you?"

Amelia's attentions weren't always friendly, but at least someone was paying attention to Rose at all.

Amelia was to leave New York a week after Vivian's funeral and return to boarding school in England. She refused to let her mother help her pack, so Rose stepped in. Mostly, she watched as Amelia scoured all three of her suite's armoires for any black clothing.

"I'm not speaking to my mother," Amelia explained. "She's planning to auction off Vivian's things for charity. She's glad Vivian's dead." She shook her head. "Vivian always said my mother was awful. Perhaps she was right. She was getting better, you know. She hadn't taken Heroin in months. …That wasn't easy for her."

Rose had read anecdotes of Bayer Heroin addiction in the papers. Julian insisted the drug was not addictive, and was safe except in cases of significant overdose (like the one that killed Vivian.) But Rose still wasn't sure.

"Was she addicted?" she asked, hushed.

"No. She just had a bad cough for twelve years."

Amelia dropped a stack of black skirts unceremoniously into her foot locker and stared Rose down. Such wide, deep eyes for such a small young face. Rose felt compelled to embrace her. Then she thought of the times she had been driven to dark humor, and what she would have wanted in a friend then.

She let herself laugh. Amelia smiled back. And just like that, she was transformed back into youth.

"Help me pack the underthings." Amelia turned and opened a trundle in one of her mahogany armoires. The room was perfumed by a lavender satchel- Rose's favorite. "Go on! Oh but only the white ones- the other ones look _ostentatious _at boarding school."

"I'll say!" Rose marveled at Amelia's chemises. They were cotton of course, but almost silky to the touch; the thread count must have been ludicrous! They came not only in white but in robin's egg, mint, tangerine, coral. Amelia had an eye for delightful colors. And clearly, neither cost nor ease of laundering was a concern for the Bowers!

Amelia balled up a pair of plain white drawers and hurled it at her foot locker like a Yankees pitcher. She nodded for Rose to do the same with the white chemises. They giggled as they worked, moving on to stockings, corset covers and brassieres.

At first Rose was a tad self-conscious. Amelia's clothes were all smaller than hers. Rose was by no means overweight, but she hadn't been as slender as Amelia since she was a mere child. Rose had noticed the younger woman's easy grace, her unconscious projection of lightness even in this season of dark grief. She wondered if she was jealous. But then Amelia caught Rose glimpsing one of her bust ruffles and held it up against her smallish chest, grinning impishly. Rose remembered that her own figure came with its advantages, too.

The foot locker was soon bursting with silk and lace, cotton and linen, caught in a reckless tangle that had no logical purpose and yet seemed to make sense. The young women had to sit on the lid to get the clasps in place. They stayed there, only a hand's width between them. Amelia leaned one hand between them. Rose kept both of hers in her lap.

"Did you go to boarding school, Fiancée?"

"Only a girls' secondary day school, I'm afraid." Rose sighed overdramatically. "Tell me, what did I miss?"

"Oh, it's _mahvelous_, dahling. We have steak for dinner every night and never a boring lecture, I can tell you. And of course, the north of England, the weather is just _lovely_ this time of year."

"Of course. Very conducive to art courses- I'm sure you have your easels out of doors most days."

"Will you write me while I'm there?" Amelia grew solemn again. "I can't talk about Vivian with anyone at school. And I know my family will ignore any mention of her in my letters."

Rose considered this. She still missed her father, for all his faults. She wished Mother was well enough for them to reminisce about him frankly. Leaving art school and getting engaged had caused Rose's old friends to drift. Amelia was intelligent, funny, and shared Rose's interest in art; she might make a very adequate replacement. She did keep Rose on her toes more than her old friends. But perhaps Rose didn't mind that.

"I will," she promised.

They embraced. Amelia was blushing when they pulled back. "I hope you can tolerate my rambling," she said. "Vivian and I had such adventures. I'd rather write novels about them than socialize with most of the girls at school."

"You must miss her terribly."

"You must be clairvoyant," Amelia teased. But it was gentler than before.

"I mean, I know the shock of it. My father's death was a sudden accident, too."

"Vivian didn't have an accident."

Amelia leaned in close. Now Rose could smell her perfume. It wasn't lavender like the clothes satchel- it was rose.

"She was murdered," she whispered.

Rose wondered if she had agreed to more than she'd bargained for.

_A/N: I altered Sofia and Mia Bowers' names to better fit the time period. Also, what on earth is going on with Fanfic refusing to let me put asterisks or other common page-breakers between scenes? I've had to just write "(scene)" instead. Sorry._


	2. The Lyritrol Bargain

**2. The Lyritrol Bargain**

Amelia returned to boarding school in England. Rose and her mother returned to Chestnut Hill, a breezy green Philadelphia suburb where their two-story brick home, complete with electric lights, indoor plumbing, and manicured gardens, was in fact modest compared to some. Mother rested. Rose kept herself busy.

She spent hours at her father's desk, with a pad of paper and all the bills and bank statements, devising a plan to survive until the postponed wedding. She reduced the maid's hours, dismissed the cook entirely, (with a good recommendation of course,) and taught herself how to take their place.

She took in Mother's clothes as she lost more weight. She called the family physician when Mother's pain was unbearable, and took her to the oncologist in Center City when she began having trouble walking. The treatment? An eye exam and a cane.

"Let's hope your fiancé's cancer drug is the breakthrough he promises," said the specialist. "And let's hope the Chemistry Bureau is swift to approve it."

This offhand addendum sent a chill down Rose's spine. Mother seemed affected, as well. She was obstinate and fidgety on the streetcar ride home.

Rose wrote to Julian whenever she could muster enough cheer. She lied about finances, saying all was quite well, so that she'd have the liberty to be frank about Mother's health:

_The specialists say another lumbar puncture is not worth the risks, nor is it worthwhile to determine the size of the tumor. They only prattle on about "symptom management" while making Mother recite rhymes and tell them the name of the President. Surely these stodgy old doctors would be more thorough in their investigations if you were here! We eagerly await any news about Lyritrol. Regardless of personal outcomes, I am proud of the work that you do. …Yours, Rose._

Julian's reply was clearly aimed at reassurance, but maintained a certain distance, causing Rose to wonder if she had struck a nerve:

_I have few personal connections at Pennsylvania Hospital, but the utmost professional respect for their oncology specialists. Please know, Rose, that there is no point in risking your dear mother's remaining lucidity and health with invasive procedures. As you know, lyrithium sulfate passed animal testing with flying colors; we have solid data that the compound shrinks cancerous tumors. The lab in Alabama is now conducting human testing, as a mere precaution. I will notify you when things have advanced. …Best, Julian Bowers._

Julian's father had said that until Lyritrol hit the market, "no news is good news." Good news indeed; the newspapers were useless in helping Rose glean more information than Julian was willing to provide.

At least Amelia's letters were helpful. "Human testing shouldn't take long," she wrote Rose. "It isn't even required, but Edward insists it bolsters the company image." She was also sympathetic: "If it were my mother, I don't know what I would do. We have our spats, but I do know that she loves me fiercely."

In mid-February, the headlines erupted with the name "Bowers." But it was not in the way that Rose had hoped.

Edward Bowers' wife Samantha had filed for divorce. The court was inclined to grant custody to the children's father, of course, but Samantha sued for full custody of her two young daughters. She claimed that her parents, prominent Sacramento citizens, would help her raise the girls.

The Bowers' lawyer worked to undermine the moral credibility of Samantha's family in court. A tabloid quoted Sophie Bowers at a soiree calling them "base, uncultured forty-niners, corrupted by their own sheer luck… My granddaughters are a thousand times better off with their father."

But Edward soon destroyed these arguments by confessing to murder. Twice.

First he turned himself in for killing his sister, Vivian, despite the coroner ruling her death an accident. An assistant of the coroner anonymously testified that they had been on the fence regarding whether Vivian's lethal last dose of heroin- an injection, rather than her usual pills- was taken willingly or by force. "The coroner opted for the ruling that involved less paperwork," he told the police.

The case was reopened and Edward held for questioning. While there, he also confessed to the rape and murder of Katherine Yeager. In 1895, the young Bostonian socialite had been found dead on the lawn of Harvard Law. Edward, who attended a raucous dormitory party the night before, was once a suspect but had been acquitted.

There was no proving or disproving Edward's second confession; the Katherine Yeager case was nearly two decades old. Robert argued his eldest son was innocent, and suffering temporary insanity from his sister's death and his daughters' departure to California. While the NYPD investigated Vivian's death, Edward was held not in jail, but in an airy, low-security mental institution upstate.

The near-daily sordid updates in _The_ _New York Times _left Rose feeling shocked and helpless. She could only imagine how Amelia felt; this was her own family, and there was nothing she could do for them from across the Atlantic.

The two young women had corresponded regularly for six weeks now. Rose gave updates on her mother, and recounted her wondrous year in art school. Amelia shared adventures with her dearest school friend Clara, and memories of her sister. They both discussed favorite authors and artists, and sent each other sketches for critiques. Their postscripts often poked fun at Sophie's ostentatious plans for Amelia's cotillion and Rose's wedding. After all this, Rose liked to consider herself Amelia's friend.

Rose wrote and encouraged Amelia to confide her feelings about Edward's arrest, if need be. "I'm in no place to tell anyone your secrets, even if I wanted," she reminded the girl. "Truth be told, I am not especially close to Julian of late."

Amelia did not reply at all for three weeks. Rose began to wonder if she had done something wrong- or if Amelia was in trouble. This schoolmate of hers, Clara Farrell, had recently convinced Amelia they should skive off to Soho during a school trip to the London Philharmonic. In her last letter before Edward's confession, Amelia wrote of accompanying Clara to her family's seaside home on a term break. The twosome had lifted a bottle of wine from a local shop and "immensely enjoyed its forbidden fruits in the privacy of dear Clara's bedchamber."

Rose was at first amused, then irked, by any mention of Clara Farrell. It wasn't just the possibility of such a bright and motivated young student as Amelia getting expelled for stupid pranks. Something about Amelia's lavish accounts of their misadventures pained Rose. She caught herself wondering if this talk of intimacy wasn't just the usual schoolgirl hyperbole.

(scene)

_Sunday, 3 March, 1912_

_My dear Amelia,_

_I cannot help but be concerned about the influence that you allow Clara Farrell to have on you. Do know that I understand the joys of close friendships._

Rose stopped herself just before writing, "_I was a schoolgirl once, myself." _Goodness. She sounded like her mother!

Rose got up and checked that Mother was still resting upstairs, then returned to Father's study. What was she thinking? Amelia was far too astute to be _lectured. _Rose blushed as she crumbled the offending stationery. She ought to be more lighthearted. She pulled a ragtime cylinder from the shelf and put it on Father's old Graphophone, then sat down to try again:

_Darling Amelia,_

_I do hope that geometry exam you were going on about hasn't actually killed you. I have not heard from you in weeks. Is everything alright? I can imagine that the silly tabloids might have you downhearted._

_No, no, _she sighed. Too patronizing, too simpering.

Why was this so difficult? Like lint on wool, talking points for her letters to Amelia usually accumulated without much thought. A lovely new Wilcox-Smith print at the local store, a pair of slippers lost to the February mud, some silly anti-suffragette tirade by Mother's fusty church friends: the joys, amusements, and frustrations of Rose's everyday life were simply passed along for Amelia to share.

And what was there to share lately? Mother's health and the late-winter weather were both dismal, but stable. Amelia's family's scandals were too painful a subject- and besides, she could read the papers herself. Rose hadn't found much joy or humor in life lately, burdened by housework- and the thoughts of Clara Farrell churning in her gut like a stone.

A metallic trilling filled the air. Rose opened the Graphophone to investigate. The stylus appeared to be moving just fine. She shut the machine off, but the trilling continued.

That's when it struck her: _the telephone. _Julian had it installed last summer as a gift. Rose used it to call Mother's doctor occasionally, but she never received incoming calls. She'd forgotten what the damn thing sounded like. She ran to the hallway before the ringing could wake Mother.

"Is this Dr. Clark?"

"Who? Ah, no, this is Dr. Bowers."

Julian snickered at his own 'wit'. Rose heard clinking glasses, unfamiliar voices laughing, and what sounded like a far newer and nicer phonograph than her own. She pressed her temples with her free hand.

"Julian, is everything alright?"

"Oh yes. Just superb, darling. Splendiferous."

_Darling? _He hadn't called her 'darling' since she was in New York for Vivian's funeral. "Julian. …Are you drunk?"

"That's beside the point." Julian cleared his throat. He next spoke so loud that Rose pulled the telephone receiver a foot from her ear: "Father and Sophie have graciously offered to take you wedding dress shopping in Paris! We leave next week!"

"Paris? But I already have a dress."

"You _had_ a dress. For a February wedding."

"Which could easily be altered for June. Right in New York, surely."

On Julian's end, (wherever the hell he was,) she heard the hit song "Come Josephine in My Flying Machine" begin to play. He began mumbling along, swooping through the crescendos.

"Julian? …Julian!"

"Yeees?"

She gritted her teeth. "What did Sophie do to my dress?"

"It's gone… gone… to the sky, girl! As a matter of speaking."

"I can't do this."

"Father said you might say that. If I didn't butter you up first with the artists' salons… the fine dining… the boat rides on the Seine…" Julian practically drawled each attraction.

"I can't pack my things and Mother's for a trip to Europe! Not in a week! I'll need to spring clean the house, dismiss the gardener… Julian, this is absurd!"

"Is it? Or is it _romantic?_"

She could almost see, through the telephone wire, his wink as he lifted a glass of champagne. She wanted to reach through the wire and knock the glass from his hands.

"Don't be upset, Rose. Father said you might be upset… Listen, the New York press is toxic, we have to escape… Father's turning sixty this month… You need- you deserve- a new dress… Sophie will come and help you pack… Have you ever seen Paris, Rose?... Have you ever sailed White Star, for that matter?..."

Rose listened in silence, staring at the faded hallway wallpaper. She had always known her years in this home were limited. But going to Paris with the Bowers cut her remaining time in Philadelphia in half. It felt much more real now: her impending full-time immersion in their lavish intrigues. Forever leaving behind the overgrown gardens and worn walls that housed her memories of her lost siblings, her late father…

And to think that Mother might soon be gone, too…

_Mother. _That was it. That was her only hope in this twisted situation.

"Give my mother Lyritrol during the trip," she said. "I don't care if the testing's done. …Please. Julian."

"Alright," he said quickly. "So you're not mad, then?"

"No," she whispered. The wallpaper flowers blurred in her tears. "Of course not."

Julian seemed to forget Rose again. He whispered to himself, along to the jaunty phonograph: _"One, two, three! Now we're off, girl!"_

Rose trembled as she placed the receiver down.

_A/N: The USDA Bureau of Chemistry (the Chemistry Bureau) was the predecessor of the Food & Drug Administration, "verifying" the safety of food and drugs sold in the United States, from the 1880s to the 1920s. Stringent prescription drug laws (including requirements of human testing before market release) were not in place until the 1930s._


	3. Escape

**3. Escape**

From the diary of Vivian Bowers:

_Sunday, 19 November, 1911_

_Amelia is seventeen today. I remember when she was born. The headshrinkers wouldn't help me; they called up a physician from the town. But I delivered before he arrived, and the manor nurses let me hold her._

_She was not "Amelia" then; Sophie chose that name. She was, as the philosophers say, tabula rasa. Tiny and new, pure and malleable, she was nothing but potential. The nurses told me she was strong._

_Then the doctor came. They held me down, and- I can scarcely bear to write this- they_

_Amelia is still strong, in spite of Sophie and my father. Like the rose that overcomes the thorns, she grows above their twisted greed and scandal. She is all of my virtue and none of my vice. I am unbearably proud of her._

_Sitting in the church today with Ben, I prayed that I could be strong as well. I prayed for the courage to do what is right. I have this hope to sustain me: When all is set right again, I can confess to Amelia our true relation. Ben and I will take her and escape together, and live happily as benevolent stepfather, doting mother, and bright, beautiful daughter._

(scene)

He cornered her on her weekend at the shore with Clara. At first Amelia thought she was seeing things. How on earth could some peon at her father's pharmaceutical company, who (like many others) had taken Vivian to a few plays in the city, appear to her in an English fishing village almost a year later?

But Benjamin Preswick was no ordinary peon. Though he and Amelia had only met once, he told her that he and Vivian had been secretly engaged to marry when Vivian died. Like Amelia, he believed that Vivian may have been murdered. When she died, Vivian was working with Ben to expose dark secrets in the Bowers' lives, both professional and personal. Secrets that some may have killed to keep hidden.

Amelia was skeptical; in her young life she'd already become jaded of sensationalists and muckrakers. Preswick offered her only a small book as "proof." He claimed it was Vivian's diary.

Back at school, Amelia compared the handwriting with old letters from her sister. They matched. But a dozen pages in, she learned that it was not her sister's diary after all.

It was her mother's.

Life in the following weeks was surreal. By day, Amelia scoured her memories for clues that dear Vivian, her whimsical, beautiful, but unstable older playmate, was in fact her mother by birth. She reimagined all her family relations- _my step-grandmother Sophie, my uncle Edward- _until she could barely hold down her meals.

Schoolyard gossip and classroom lectures echoed and blurred, as if she were listening to them underwater. She withdrew from Clara. She fell behind on her studies. She ignored New York friends' notes of shock and sympathy over Edward's murder confessions. Even poor sweet Rose the Fiancée, who was trapped on a pre-wedding tour of Paris with Julian and with Amelia's parents, (_grandparents,_) had her lovely letters ignored.

By night, Amelia read and reread the diary, scrutinizing its authenticity. Family events replayed with the precision of a moving picture. Every description, every dialogue, perfectly fit the characters of the Bowers' world. Amelia found nothing untrue, but much that she hadn't known. To her horror, giving birth as a fifteen-year-old asylum patient was far from the heaviest burden Vivian had carried.

Amelia's natural father, an older man whom Vivian referred to only as "D.H.," was still a part of her life; Amelia had the sense that Vivian feared him. Sophie continually threatened Vivian into silence about her true relation to Amelia. Preswick was feeding Vivian information, allegedly from the human testing in Alabama, that Lyritrol was a bad drug- even a deadly one. She had to decide whether to trust him, and if they should go public with the information.

Vivian wrote more than once that she wished she could be stronger. Amelia wished she could tell her how strong she already was.

The day after Christmas, 1911, Vivian summarized her family's lavish gifts, and recounted a sledding trip with Ben in loving detail. She had died three days later. The pages went blank. Amelia still combed through them, in some fruitless hope that Vivian would come back to her through paper and ink.

Instead she found a note from Preswick. He wrote in miniscule scrawl on an anonymous middle page.

_A: I am in hiding. We can help one another. –B. _

He'd left an address in London. The unfashionable side. Amelia wrote him back.

_B: I believe her. I do not yet believe you. Convince me. –A._

A week later she received a parcel at breakfast with no return address and no name. Inside a single sheet read:

_A: They are returning to US on Titanic, leaving 4/10. I am boarding as well to track them, gather evidence. –B._

Amelia pushed away her oatmeal and buried her head in her hands, exasperated. "Oh, dear God."

Why had Preswick bothered contacting her? Why say they could 'help one another,' then launch himself on some stupid chivalrous stunt? Why give her the diary, then leave her alone with nothing but questions?

Amelia didn't trust Preswick. She wanted to escape this stone fortress, board the ship with them all, and find her own answers.

(scene)

April came. Final exams approached; so did the Spring Ball with the boys' boarding school in the next town. The semester's demerits were accumulating, and troublemakers skirted banishment from the ball or even from the school itself. Tensions grew higher than the cold wet winds outside the school walls.

It was shower night for Amelia's dormitory house. Someone tugged her towel as she walked from the stalls to the sinks. She ignored it. Someone tugged harder. Amelia's side was exposed, and she nearly lost her footing from being turned about on wet tile.

"What are you doing?"

"Go on," grinned the perpetrator, a snub-nosed American named Helen Jansen. "Do something crazy so I can sell it to the _Daily Mirror._"

"Ladies!" their house mother barked.

Shower room teasing was common and often harmless, but the faculty never took it lightly. One could get away with embraces or pinches, pet names or teases, fully clothed in the mess hall or the classroom. That would be written off as "sisterly affection." But things were much stricter in the showers and dorms. No one discussed inversion- but the girls all knew that was the fear.

Amelia moved on in silence to retrieve her toothbrush. Clara met her at the sink. Her face, paler than usual, seemed to disappear in the mirror's steam. She was sullen. Since learning the truth about herself and Vivian, Amelia could see Clara only as a child- like all the others. Still, she felt guilty for leaving the girl adrift. That weekend at the shore had meant a great deal to both of them at the time…

"Ugly little tart, isn't she?" Amelia teased, trying to get Clara to smile. It didn't work.

She felt her towel tugged yet again. This time she let it fall. She wheeled on Helen, eyes narrowed, half-exposed.

"Maybe the _Daily Mirror _would like to know if your naughty little rash has cleared up, Jansen."

"And why were you peeking _there?_" She sneered. "Have a beau for the spring ball yet, Bowers?"

Clara turned away all too deliberately. Girls were watching and pretending not to. Amelia felt heat rising in her neck. "Push me, Jansen," she muttered. "I dare you."

"A little killer, hm?" she sneered. "Like brother like sister, I suppose."

The shower hall echoed with screams. Amelia had slammed Helen against the wall, and kept her pinned by her tiny, girlish shoulders.

Helen was dazed, her eyes opaque. The dorm mother called for help from other faculty. The other girls tried to pull Amelia away, but they were too ginger, touching her only by the forearms. Her towel had fallen completely away. She was transformed before their eyes; tendons bulged angrily from her soft body, her jaw grew more prominent, her blue eyes darkened like the sea in a storm.

"He is _not_ my brother! He was NEVER my brother!"

"Mia! MIA! _STOP!_"

Clara took the rounds of Amelia's shoulders full in her hands. Amelia let her pull her away. Her strength snapped like a rope in the cold. She fell into the other girl, heaving sobs.

Vivian used to call Amelia her "little Mia." The others didn't know this. Amelia only told Clara several months ago in Soho. This was the first time that Clara dared to use the name.

The faculty were circling in, squawking about deviance, threatening them both with expulsion if Amelia didn't cover up at once. Clara held to Amelia, still and sure. She looked deep into her eyes. Amelia saw the wise, courageous soul beneath the adolescent trickster. This was what had made her fall for Clara in the first place.

"You can escape," Clara whispered.

"_Inverts!" _the headmistress screamed, as Amelia and Clara shared a full, deep kiss.


	4. Fatal Flaws

**4. Fatal Flaws**

_It is awfully important to know what is and what is not your business_. –Gertrude Stein

(scene)

"Oh, Rose," Mother breathed. "It's beautiful."

Mere days before their departure for Southampton, Rose's wedding dress had been delivered to the Ritz at last. The box looked like a long, flattened coffin, with its polished pine, fine brass clasps and hinges, and velvet interior. Such luxurious packaging would be reserved for the finest of dresses, and this one did not disappoint.

The short sleeves, bodice, and full-length skirt were cream-colored Duchess silk. The princess neckline left plenty of room to show off whatever lavish necklaces the Bowers had in store. The fasteners were mother of pearl- hidden near the one armpit, but not buried in lace like the clasps on Rose's old dress. The skirt was terraced on an angle; the hem began just below the empire waist and spiraled, slightly ruffled, down the long, columnar skirt. A full two inches along the hem was adorned with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tiny glass beads. Rose would look as if she were wrapped in a sash of stars.

"Help me try it on," she said. Mother's eyes widened. "Oh let's, Mother! Julian's the only one not allowed to see me in it."

Mother had been ill during Rose's first two trips to the bridal shop, and by the third, Sophie had assumed the role of hovering around Rose and fussing with the tailor's measuring tape. Mother had barely seen her in the dress; they certainly hadn't had a chance to revel at it together, in Bowers-free privacy.

Rose was so proud of this dress that her contentment with the old one now made her wince. The Belgian lace over everything, the corset and crinoline, the high neckline and pigeon pout bodice…What was she thinking?

But that was Philadelphia in 1911; this was Paris in 1912. Fashions had changed- and for the better, Rose thought! Away with the contrived s-silhouette! Any curves beneath this dress would be Rose's own. She would stand tall and natural, and sparkle like the clear night sky at sea.

Rose had forgiven Julian for drunkenly tossing her old dress in the Hudson. (As Sophie, also drunk at the time, had revealed to Rose scarcely after the Bowers party set sail from Philadelphia.) She was grateful now- not just for the dress, but for all that their trip to Paris had entailed.

While Julian spent his days at medical lectures and his nights at the burlesques, Rose dabbled in a course at the École de Beaux Arts and lost herself in the Louvre. She had seen strange and wonderful new inventions in the streets: bicycles with motors instead of pedals, and lights made of neon-filled tubes. As promised, Julian had been giving Rose's mother daily doses of Lyritrol, and soon she was strong and lucid enough to visit the countryside spas with Rose and Sophie. Rose was more grateful for this than anything else.

Gratitude, Rose decided, was a fitting state in which to start a marriage. Romantic infatuation was overrated.

Mother fastened the dress's clasps and led Rose over to the full-length mirror. Just as she began fussing over Rose's hair, there was a heavy knock on the door to the Bowers' sitting room. They heard Robert call out:

"May I come in, ladies?"

"Is Julian with you?" Rose demanded.

"No."

"Then yes, you may come in."

Robert entered chuckling at the women's fussing. He stopped when he saw Rose. In a room of ornamental brass, Persian rugs and Tiffany glass, she was a simple yet striking centerpiece. Her bridal gown fell gently on her form, and her auburn curls were loose upon her white collarbones.

He cleared his throat. "You look stunning, my dear."

"Thank you," Rose blushed.

"But I'm afraid I must ask you to prepare for dinner. Julian called from the Sorbonne. He wants all of us ready to leave for Maxim's as soon as he arrives."

"You can go without me," said Mother. "I'd rather take a light supper here."

"But Mother-"

"The nausea is just an inconvenience of the Lyritrol, Ruth," Robert reminded her. "A hearty meal will do you good. I assure you that Maxim's is the best in Paris."

"But it's not just…"

Mother faltered and trailed off. Robert's expression was dark and scrutinizing. Rose spoke up:

"You stay here and rest. We'll have the staff report to us whether you eat well."

Rayburn, Robert's valet, appeared behind him in the doorway. "Sir, a telegram for you and Mrs. Bowers."

"From?"

"Amelia's headmistress."

Robert cast one last squinting look towards the DeWitt Bukaters. "One hour, Rose," he said, forcing a pleasant tone. He turned and left.

(scene)

An hour later, Rose and Julian sat on opposite ends of a leather sofa in the hotel lobby. Julian tied his four-in-hand by himself while Rose, dressed in her simplest Empire-waisted evening gown, watched the lifts. There was still no sign of Robert and Sophie.

"What were they arguing about up there?" Julian asked.

"Amelia. The school sent a telegram saying that she's been expelled."

Julian let out a long sigh. "Well. At least she'll be with us on _Titanic. _That ought to liven things up."

"I couldn't catch _why _she's been expelled," Rose frowned. "She's such a good student, really, a lovely young girl… I did hear Sophie say, 'She's nothing like Vivian.' Perhaps your father compared Amelia's indiscretions to her sister's…"

Julian gave a knowing half-smile that Rose was becoming all too familiar with. "What, were you listening with your ear against the door?"

"Of course not!"

"Well you ought to, if you're so concerned. When it comes to my father and Sophie, you have to snoop. They'll never tell you anything."

Rose folded her gloved hands and considered this. Julian snapped his fingers at a lobby waiter, and traded him a champagne glass for a generous tip.

"We'll give them a few more minutes," he told Rose. "I'm sure Sophie's hysterics are nothing an absinthe can't cure."

Rose continued to watch the _tout-Paris _coming and going from their operas and cotillions, salons and state dinners. The hotel pianist played Satie. Julian sipped his champagne.

He suddenly set his glass down hard, staring across the lobby. Rose followed his gaze. A large, white-haired man in a baggy tuxedo approached them, with a ruby-lipped _demimondaine _draped on his elbow.

"I apologize in advance for the displeasure of this man's company," Julian muttered. He stood, and Rose followed suit. "Senator Haverstock."

"Dr. Julian Bowers! I should have known you'd be staying at the Ritz. It's been, what, a month since you fled New York?" He turned to the woman on his arm. "I can barely spring a week here, being, as I am, a lowly public servant." His companion twittered. Rose got the sense that she didn't understand much English.

"Senator Haverstock, I'd like to introduce my fiancée, Rose DeWitt Bukater. Rose, this is New York senator Dwight Haverstock."

"Ah! A pleasure. A pleasure indeed!"

Haverstock took Rose's hand and kissed it. She did her best not to recoil. He looked her over like a prime cut hanging in the grocer's window, tut-tutting in appreciation.

"Some men have all the luck. Did you take your lady to the Sorbonne today, Julian?"

"No. I was looking after my mother." Rose blurted. She felt it important that she speak for herself.

She extended a handshake towards the woman on Haverstock's arm. She couldn't have been older than Rose herself. She wore impossibly high heels and had green feathers in her jet-black up-do. Her dress was hardly more than a black satin sheath, scandalously cut just below the knees and just above the breasts. She wore a jade-colored shawl, but it was gauzy and transparent as a dragonfly's wings. Rose thought she must have been freezing.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Je suis-"

"I wouldn't want your lady mingling with this one if I were you, Julian!" Haverstock boomed. "She's a great _admirer _of Colette, you see."

Julian pushed Rose a step back. She was no longer a person in this conversation, but a treasured object, to be held safe from contamination. Anger tightened in her chest.

"A shame she didn't get to see your pretty little pitch today, though. And right after Madame Curie! The battle strategy against cancer: Curie finds it and Bowers kills it!"

Rose had read a little about Curie's work. She tried to cut in: "Does this mean radioactivity can-"

"So tell me," Haverstock continued, to Julian. "Have you managed to iron out your miracle drug's… inconvenient fatal flaws?"

"What flaws?" Julian asked, quick and terse.

"Ahhh, 'what flaws?' That's the Bowers way: well done, Jules."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

Julian glared at Haverstock. Rose looked to him with concern. Haverstock's companion watched with blithe curiosity. Haverstock seemed to enjoy having all eyes on him. He spoke slowly, as if giving a pronouncement:

"It doesn't matter if this thing is a dog or isn't. It doesn't get past the Chemistry Bureau… unless I have a sit-down… with your father. The time has come for a thaw… Make it happen."

He patted Julian on the arm; the younger man smarted. Haverstock's companion blew Rose a kiss as he led her away.

"An old friend of my father's," Julian explained. "They had a disagreement decades back, haven't spoken since."

"What about?"

"I have no idea, Rose. They're stubborn old men. It could be anything."

"What was he saying about Lyritrol having flaws?" Rose asked. She kept quiet and composed, as they were in public. But she wanted nothing more than to run upstairs to Mother. Julian waved over the lobby waiter again. This time he took two champagnes.

"I have _no idea_," Julian repeated. He downed his first glass in one long gulp. He wouldn't look Rose in the eye.

"Is it the Alabama trials? Are people losing their appetite like my mother? …Or worse?"

"Loss of appetite is a mild side effect. The trials are going wonderfully, we couldn't expect better results."

Julian spoke as if to a trying child. He downed the other glass, then wrenched his arm from Rose so forcefully that she ducked for cover. (After all, she'd seen him deck a nosy reporter on the docks in Philadelphia.) But he didn't move to strike her- only to check his pocket watch.

"I say we give up on Father and Sophie. Go tend to your mother, Rose. I'll be at the Moulin Rouge. Don't wait up."

"Darling, we should talk about this-"

"Or better yet, go make friends with Haverstock's plaything. I think she _likes _you!"

All the boyish self-pity fell from Julian's demeanor. He glared Rose down, cold and stern. She felt small and dirty without knowing exactly why.

"Julian…"

Julian's heel squeaked on the marble as he turned and marched out. He shoved an iron grate against the hotel's front doorway; patrons gasped, stopped and stared. Rose bit back a snarl of disgust as he vanished into the dark Parisian rain.

(scene)

_A/N: In reality, Marie Curie spent much of 1912 out of the public eye, recovering from health problems and the scandal of an extramarital affair. I took the liberty in my story of imagining that she was active in the scientific community in 1912, and mentioning that x-rays could be used to spot tumors._


	5. The Man in the Window

**5. The Man in the Window**

From the diary of Vivian Bowers:

_Wednesday, 23 November, 1911_

_Ben left for Alabama on Monday. The doctors conducting the Lyritrol trials have all been bought by my father, but Ben hopes, by bribery or appeals to their humanity, to convince a laboratory worker to give him reports on the deceased subjects. He suspects the radium is the killer ingredient, in which case, he warned me, the details could be gruesome. I told him I am not afraid. He promises to share the reports with me, no matter what._

_All the men in my life have treated me like an object: either a fragile decoration, a porcelain doll; or a sought-after treasure, a holy grail. Ben is different. He sees me. He trusts me._

_I must not think of him as I entertain D.H. for Thanksgiving tomorrow. The only thing worse than another empty, boozy holiday with that man would be to spend the day with my family, looking around the table and wondering who is the mastermind, the one allowing innocents to die for the sake of their ambition…_

(scene)

_B: I'm returning Stateside with family. Staying at the Dolphin, Soton, night of 4/9 only. I __want__ the med records. –A_

(scene)

"I've got you. Now pull yourself up."

Amelia extended her arms to pull Ben into her hotel room. He shook his head and, with a deep grunt, jumped from the tree limb to the windowsill on his own. He landed with one leg dangling out the window. Amelia stood back and let him finish the job alone. That was what he wanted, right? If he couldn't manage, it was only a twelve-foot fall. Amelia smirked.

At last, Ben hoisted up his other leg and rolled, trembling, from low windowsill to floor. "As promised," he said quietly. "The medical records of the test subjects lost."

"You didn't promise that, I demanded it."

Ben rolled his eyes but said nothing. He propped himself up against the wall and reached beneath his jacket. He pulled out a thick manila folder, sealed, unmarked. When he held it up to Amelia, it shook like a sheet in a snappish wind.

Ben seemed unwell. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes, and his voice was raspy. Amelia remembered him with a trim athletic build, much like Julian's; now he was haggard, shrunken in his clothes. He was unshaven and tousle haired, his jacket was missing some of its many buttons, and his broad tie was wrinkled and stained. A fallen dandy. A softer woman might have felt sorry for him.

Amelia slipped a few pages from the folder. She saw typewritten ages and names, various cancer diagnoses, symptom notes like "vomiting blood and bile" and "sloughing of the skin." Good God. That was enough.

She looked for a good hiding place. A shame she didn't have her own safe like Robert and Sophie. If she stashed the envelope in a trunk, the maids would find it while unpacking on the ship_. _She had one leather suitcase with a silk lining… Yes, that would have to do. She rummaged about for sewing scissors, all the while listening for footsteps in the hall.

"I should tell you," said Ben. "Those records are insufficient evidence on their own. You'll also need evidence of payoffs to the victims' families."

Amelia slipped the folder through the tidy new slit in her suitcase lining, then shut the case. She'd sew it up tonight after everyone was in bed. "Do you have that?" she asked.

"No." A wincing pause. "Vivian had it the night she died. I think I can find a copy in New York, in the finances department of Bowers. It should only take five minutes-"

"You need to get back inside _Bowers headquarters?_"

"Edward used to be the chief financial officer. If I can contact him upstate-"

"No." Amelia pressed her hand to her forehead. "God, no. He might have killed her."

"I don't believe he did."

"_What?_"

In an instant she was on top of him. She smelled Guinness and cheap cologne. He warily eyed the little silver scissors still clenched in her hand.

"Who was it, then?" she hissed. "Was it my m- was it Sophie? Was it D.H.? Who is he? Vivian said he'd kill her if she ever left."

"I've gotten you too involved, Mia."

"_Don't call me that._"

There was a knock on the door. "Amelia, darling!" Sophie cooed. "May I come in?"

Amelia scanned the room for Ben-sized hiding spots. She turned back to suggest the armoire, and found Ben climbing back over the slate window ledge.

"Don't you dare give me the slip on _Titanic_! I'm not some helpless damsel. I can _help _you!"

Ben smiled sadly. "You are so much like your mother."

He sat facing outward on the ledge and began reaching for tree limbs, testing their weight. Amelia gave him a _shush _sign in warning, then drew the velvet curtains around him.

"Come in!"

(scene)

Robert stood in the hotel suite's master bedroom with his ear against the mahogany paneling. He had heard the sole rustling tree on this still and foggy Southampton night; he'd heard Amelia and a deep-voiced man, arguing in whispers in her room. He couldn't tell who the man was, or what this was all about. But he did hear the word _Titanic_.

Robert had encouraged Sophie to indulge her yearning to 'reconnect' with the girl. Now Amelia's room would be monitored. But the DeWitt Bukaters were still alone, in their own suite directly beneath the Bowers'…

He found Julian in the sitting room, watching flames dance in the great marble fireplace, drinking again. "Go check on your fiancée," the old man snapped.

"I'm not keen on her company right now."

"It's a little early to be tired of her, isn't it? At least wait until after the honeymoon."

"She's certainly not keen on seeing me."

"Then change her mind. Be chivalrous. Check on her mother. Remind her what she owes you."

Julian slammed his champagne glass on the ebony end table and marched off. Robert stood with his gold pocket watch in hand, giving Julian a few minutes' head start. Once he was certain his son wouldn't spot him in the corridor, he headed down to investigate.

(scene)

Amelia sat at her vanity staring straight ahead, intentionally blank. She pretended not to watch in the mirror as Sophie picked up her favorite childhood music box.

"Vivian gave this to you, didn't she?"

"Yes." Ben's words, _You are so much like your mother, _echoed in Amelia's ears. Sophie turned the porcelain ballerina, who then began to twirl to Strauss's "Tales from the Vienna Woods."

"I'm glad you'll be with us on _Titanic,_" Sophie plied. "Rose and Ruth are very serious creatures. You and I have such fun on ocean voyages."

Amelia continued to play a game of seeing how still she could sit. Sophie sighed.

"I'm sure you miss your school friend, darling."

"I'm sure that makes you happy."

"What an awful thing to say!"

"Julian told me how you stayed in for the night with your absinthe when you got the news."

Amelia lifted her chin, defiant. Sophie ignored this, and instead began to brush her daughter's silky blonde hair. "I was upset, I'll admit, but not at you. I blame the school for expelling you over something so benign."

"Really?"

"Of course! Young girls mistake deep friendship for passion all the time, sweetheart, I know this. I was a young girl once."

Amelia burned beneath her cool façade. Of course Sophie discounted her as a senseless little girl. So did Ben. So did most everyone. And of course Sophie didn't truly understand her; she wasn't Amelia's real mother.

Amelia heard the tree outside her window rustle. She glimpsed the curtain out of the corner of her eye. It was still. Sophie paid the noise no mind. She had reached into her handbag and unearthed a hardwood necklace box.

"I have something for you. I was saving it for the soiree, but tonight… I thought it might cheer you up."

The aged hinges creaked as Sophie opened the box to reveal a heart-shaped, deep blue stone, brilliantly cut and as large as a plum, set in a silver-chained necklace. Amelia didn't know whether to smile or to blush.

"Mother, it's beautiful. …Is it a blue diamond?"

"It is! And here I thought _I_ knew my gems."

Sophie beamed with pride. She draped the necklace onto Amelia, gently pulling back her hair in the process.

"Marie Antoinette lost one of her best ladies in waiting when my great-great grandmother left for the New World. This was her parting gift to her. My family's passed it from mother to daughter ever since. We call it _le cœur de la mer._"

The translation hung unspoken between them: _The heart of the ocean._

Amelia stared into the mirror and gently touched the stone, entranced. Sophie smiled, hovering over Amelia like a bird above its nestling.

It was easy to see how they'd passed for mother and daughter for seventeen years. Both were slender and long-limbed. Though Amelia had the lighter eyes and Sophie the lighter hair, they were close enough on both accounts. The resemblance in their face shapes- the wide eyes, straight noses, high cheekbones- was rather uncanny.

It occurred to Amelia that this was probably the first time in over a century that this necklace was trading hands between unrelated women. Sophie had never had children of her own. Amelia was the closest thing she had. Amelia knew that Sophie loved her. But did that love have a lethal edge?

"A woman's heart is like a deep ocean," Sophie said. "It contains many currents, many moods. The love between mother and daughter, between woman and God, between dear friends… and between woman and man.

Suddenly, this 'woman's heart' felt cold and heavy against Amelia's chest. She reached to take it off. Sophie caught her hands and stilled them.

"When you find _that _love, darling, it will be unmistakable. It will complete you. I promise."

"Of course," Amelia grumbled. "Like Julian and the fiancée?"

(scene)

"Rose! I've come calling, my _love!_"

Rose set aside her book and resignedly got to her feet. _Drunk again, Julian? _She answered the door before he could make a fool of himself in the hallway of the Dolphin Hotel.

Julian struck a pose leaning against the doorway. He wore no tie and his shirt was untucked. He gave her his best puppy-dog brown eyes."How's your mother?"

"Resting. Now shush."

"You know I thought about what you said, on the Channel ferry." Julian swayed into the suite. Rose closed the door behind him, red-faced. "About me giving your mother a full medical exam, to check on her side effects."

"Julian, we can talk about this another-"

"I'll do it!" he half-shouted. "Tomorrow, once we settle in aboard."

"That's very kind, but-"

"You see, darling, I'll deny you nothing! Nothing!" he announced, waving grandly at some imagined audience lining the room. "That is, if you'll not deny me."

He took her by the wrists and pulled her onto the loveseat. Before Rose knew what was happening, Julian's large, damp hands were running down her nightdress; his stubble scratched her cheek and his breath was hot in her ear. She tried to cry out but couldn't catch her breath. He pulled back, grinning wickedly.

"Now _shush."_

Rose heard the groan and snap of distressed tree branches, a great crash, and a pained moan just outside the window. The ruckus shocked Julian just enough for her to push him off. She hurried outside to see who had fallen. She didn't know who she was trying to rescue.

She found Robert beneath the flimsy young maple in the side alley, holding a scraggly, half-conscious young man by his jacket lapels. Rose had never seen the older gentleman look so savage, his eyes narrowed and glistening, teeth bared, tendons bulging in his neck.

"You think I don't know what you were doing? I would _kill _you before I let you-"

"Mr. Bowers?"

"Rose!"

Robert's face and tone softened, but his fists didn't budge on the lapels. There was still a dangerous light in his eyes.

"Sweetheart, go back inside. Have the concierge to call the police. Tell them we've apprehended a voyeur."

Rose obeyed. As hotel security went out to collect the man, she stayed in the lobby. She told herself she was waiting in case the police wanted to question her. In truth she didn't want to return to her suite.

Why was she so shaken? Why did she feel used? She and Julian were married, in practice if not yet by law. Wasn't tolerating his behavior part of her wifely duties?

Julian wasn't so bad, after all. Like any man, he had his moods: grand romantic gestures, boorish or brooding drunkenness, and the times when he (mercifully) ignored her. In the two years she had known him, this was the first time he had been rough with her. It would be rare, Rose decided. Rare was tolerable. Rare was easier than what some women had to endure.

As the lobby began to buzz with gossip-mongers and police, Robert came in and sat beside Rose. He draped his coat across her shoulders; she pulled it tight over her nightdress.

Robert was once again a quiet old man, worn and deflated. But there was blood on the knuckles of his one hand. Rose suppressed a cold shiver of fear. Robert had only ever been kind to her, after all. He was like a surrogate father. Or grandfather, even- he was nearly old enough.

"Did he frighten you, Rose?"

He meant the man in the window, of course. "No," Rose whispered. "Wh-what was he doing, outside Amelia's window?"

Robert was wry. "I suppose what any degenerate would do outside the window of a seventeen-year-old girl."

"Do you know him? I mean, does he know the family?"

"No. Don't worry, Rose. They've taken him to jail. I gave the police a statement, and Sophie will as well. You and Amelia don't have to, if you don't want to."

"I only saw him there in the alley. They don't need my statement."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Before Rose could answer, Robert added: "Before I heard the commotion in the alley, I'd come downstairs to check on you. I heard Julian carrying on in your suite…"

Rose turned away and desperately wiped her eyes. She couldn't embarrass Robert. She couldn't admit to him that, tonight, she had been frightened of his son.


End file.
